Stormcallers: Chapter 31

There is a village on the edge of Madrain, called Ostra. Ostra was the smallest town on the island to have docks, kept mostly because of the dry season, when the nearby island of Galgasan passes close to Madrain. Trade was plentiful in the dry season, and merchants came from the nearby villages to share and barter their goods.

But this was the wet season, a time for the wise Madrainian to tend to their meager fields, or hunt the ordinarily ferocious wild boars that stalked the nearby jungles.

Kerrom was not wise. He knew this, and had known it from before he left the island to become a mercenary. He had known it before he arrived at Erosea and sold himself as a guard, and spent over five years of his life protecting his employer’s shipments. He had known wisdom was beyond him ever since that day, so many years ago, when he earned the name Sephehar.

And let this be a lesson to you, dearest beloved, for though it would have been wise for Kerrom to do as his king had commanded, he knew in his heart that he could not commit such cruelty as was his duty. So is Wisdom a virtue only when it accounts for the heart, and compassion.

Now Kerrom rides closer to Ostra, sitting atop an elk he had stolen on his journey. His heart ached for his crime, but his fear of Herathia drove him onward. He gripped the reigns of his mount, the heat of the jungle twisting his mind. He saw shapes and shadows he had not seen for years, and spoke to old friends long since dead. His hunger grew sharp in his stomach until he could bear it no longer, and he stopped to hunt for boar and snake.

In the cool night he could think clearly again, and he thought to wonder if his way had been mistaken. Was he close to Ostra, or was he headed in the wrong direction? He did not know; in his fever there was no telling how true his path had been.

So, Kerrom approached a gnarled tree, and climbed up the rough bark as quick as his frame would allow. Up atop the tree, in the canopy, an arrowhead called out its alarm before darting away, befitting its name better than the buffoonish sounding ‘greet’ of Erosea.

When he reached the top of the tree, he looked this way and that for signs of Ostra. Behind him, he could see the raised hills of Madrain, and the tall tower of Tarras Bastion. Black smoke still clung to the air above it, a marker of the dark and evil deeds that had been wrought upon it.

Poor Kerrom, he had not the words for what filled his heart. Tarras Bastion was the heart of Madrain. As one born in the jungles, so see such a monument destroyed was a pain he had never felt before.

But too had Tarras Bastion been no more than a place of pain and torture. The Pit had robbed him of his name, and he escaped only because of the strength given to him by a Lergosian slave girl. And now his suffering had been avenged.

You must know, dearest beloved, that the Knights of Rayan did not countenance emotion. They trained for many years to turn their hearts cold. To be a man was to be free from such feminine things as compassion and regret. He knew no words for heartbreak, nor homesickness. His ways were the ways of ice and steel. He was not supposed to feel pain.

But he felt pain in his heart that day, and poor Kerrom, he knew not how to name it. It came upon him suddenly, like a storm, and crushed his chest within its grasp.

Then Kerrom turned, and saw the tiny roofs and streets of Ostra, less than a day’s ride away.

The next morning, when he mounted his elk, he felt it groan and shift under his weight. Though he yearned to be on his way, his heart still shook in termoil, and he whispered through cracked lips: “Yes. You have had enough.” With a mercy he had never thought to grant to beasts of burden, Kerrom slipped off his mount’s back and thudded to the damp earth. He ran his hand over the elk’s strong neck before gripping the reins in his hand and continuing towards Ostra.

At last, the path turned from mud to cobbled bricks. He entered the town of Ostra, thin, tired, and hungry. Green vines and brown creeper clung to the damp stones, leaves quivering in the wind as Kerrom steadily made his way through the town. The main street was quiet, populated only by a few men and women hurrying home to a find a good meal and warm feet for the evening.

Though Kerrom had never been to Ostra, it did not take long for him to find what he needed. It was named Austredheka, which was a seasonal flower in Madrain. Places such as these were for travelers to sleep, and drink, and rest themselves before continuing on their way. These buildings were also a place for people to find what they sought, or offer what they had.

Kerrom had an elk. He sought a ship. It would be weeks before one arrived, but he could worry about that tomorrow. Nearly asleep on his feet, he sold the keeper his elk for an unjust price, including a meal and bed for the evening. He sank into a wooden chair, almost snapping it in half so forcefully did he sit. His head fell into his hands, and waited there until the fresh smell of roasted herbs and fresh vegetable reached his nose. He ate greedily, filling his aching stomach with the first full meal he had eaten in days before picking himself up and lurching for the stairs.

But what should he hear when his foot touched the first step but the voice of a young man behind him. “Please, kind sir? I do so hate to put myself between a man so in need of rest as you obviously are, but I find myself in desperate need, and I fear I cannot bear to wait for the morning to speak with you, and perhaps risk missing you should your travels take you elsewhere.”

The man was young, boyish in face and warm in smile. He raised a glass as Kerrom stared and studied the man’s skin. “You are Erosean,” he said at last, to tired to spit his disgust.

The man smiled wider at this, and clasped his hands together: “You are of course correct, good sir, though I beg that you not hold this fact against me. It was, after all, none of my doing. Please, if you can stand to remain awake for but a few more minutes, I wish to offer a proposal to you. In return for your time and patience, I will gladly reimburse you for your room, your meal, a drink we can share, and even supplement the cost of your elk.”

Kerrom blinked at the smiling man. His bones ached with fatigue, and his mind felt as arid as the clouds, but he had little coin and there was little cost in listening. Staggering to the table, he collapsed in the chair opposite the man.

“Ah,” the man smiled as he waved to the keeper. “Another drink for…forgive me, I don’t know your name. Oh! My manners, asking your name before I give you mine. My name is Oatlin Nicoudes, and I am a trader of…some little means. I have goods to sell and people who wish to buy—”

“I have no coin to buy,” Kerrom rumbled as the keeper brought a tall mug of warm spiced beer.

“Oh, no!” Oatlin pressed a ringed hand to his chest, “Forgive my foolish tongue. I do not want you to buy my goods, no…I want to purchase you. The plight of the trader is very real these days. Pirates prowl the cloud-sea, following the trade-paths between the islands, and the Erwind Trade Conglomerate has become a company of unparalleled political and mercantile strength. They are ready to resort to any methods to prevent small traders such as myself and my colleagues from selling anything at all.”

“Colleagues?” Kerrom was not so tired as to miss the word. “Who are they?”

“A small group of like-minded individuals,” Oatlin waved his hand. “We are attempting our own little initiative; we hope to provide things that people need for a fair price and responsible cut. We look for long term investment, rather than short term gain. It’s a…philosophical idea, mostly, but we believe it will work and provide much needed balm to a dangerous and tenuous time. You see, I have a small ship docked here already, with a small load of cargo, and I have need of a guard, of sorts. You look like you can handle yourself quite well. I notice the sword…no, festna? Is that what it’s called? I notice it on your back and it looks well used. In return I will pay you well.”

At hearing these words, Kerrom almost attacked the man for daring to suggest he return to his old job of protecting a merchant’s cargo, but so tired was he that he did not say anything before Oatlin continued: “If you are willing, I would purchase your arm for a second journey as well. You see, I sail for the island of Erosea, and I do not have the money to ride the Vartarenthi ice-road. I must ride the Bosovila, and the people who travel that river are…well…there is strength in numbers, and you seem very strong indeed.”

“I too must travel to Erosea,” Kerrom spoke.

Oatlin slapped the table. “It must be fate itself that has brought us together. If you are headed to Erosea, it will cost you. But if you work for me, I will pay you. Once we reach the capital of Erosea, our contract will be complete, and we will go our separate ways.”

Now Kerrom did not trust the merchant Oatlin, but he knew the man was correct. He set down his mug, and pulled the demi-gauntlet made of metal black as night, shiny as ice, free from his side. The flame-light reflected in the black metal. On the edges, a shimmering rainbow twisted and turned like curls of steam. When he looked up, Oatlin had stretched out his hand.

Kerrom took it, and shook once.

“Excellent!” Oatlin’s childish grin returned. “Now, I have kept you awake for far too long! Please, go upstairs to your room and rest. The winds will not shift towards Erosea until tomorrow evening, so you may sleep as long as you like. I will likely need to purchase some supplies tomorrow morning, so you will find me on the streets, if you need me for anything.”

Now Oatlin was a merchant, and so he had a merchant’s eye. He looked down to the demi-gauntlet Kerrom had set on the table and said; “I of course do not wish to pry unduly, and I will withdraw my question if you do not think it my business, but may I ask why you travel to Erosea?”

Kerrom did not see fit to answer, and instead picked up the demi-gauntlet and replaced it at his belt.

“Ah, of course,” Oatlin leaned back. “I apologize. Perhaps then, instead, I will ask you a more simple question; may I know who you are?”

Ah, such a simple question, and one so complicated too! Poor Kerrom had never thought to ask himself such a question before, because he had a name. Then, his name had been stripped from him, and all he had were memories. Memories of other people, and what he had done to them, what they had done to him. And in the darkness, all of the memories had replaced the words he had lost.

But now, strong and brave Kerrom, now he knew his name, and he knew what it meant. It was this name that he told the merchant Oatlin: “I am Kerrom Sephehar, former Knight of Rayan.”

---

Oh blessed vessel, which took the once slave-girls from the jungles of Madrain. How wonderful it was for Rukiya to once more feel the winds in her hair, the smell of the cloud-sea in her nostrils.

Where was the ship taking her?

Rukiya and Goduu stepped ashore on the holy land of Orghasa, but Rukiya did not know this was where they were headed, and it troubled her sorely. Her fellow girls did not care where they were headed, so long as it was away from the horrors of Tarras Bastion. Their days were filled with laughter and tears in turn with new gratitude, old fear, and terrifying relief.

Rukiya felt no relief, and little comfort. Through fate or fortune, she had promised Captain Festan a year of her life in service, and on this day was the year complete. In return for her service the Captain was now dead, and she had been bought and sold as a slave. She had sought to learn the strange magics of the other islands of the Cloud Sea, and had been beaten and whipped for her troubles. Storms had scarred her cheek, her arm, her hand, a lash had scarred her back, and she was no wiser nor stronger than she had been when first she boarded the Prezon.

Months ago, the spiteful sailor Leig had thrown her traveler’s charm over the edge of the ship. If she returned home, she would not be the Rukiya who had left. She could not return home, not yet.

Because she hadn’t learned the magics of the Eroseans?

No, beloved, nor because she had not learned the magics of the Callers. She had another reason to stay traveling the cloud-sea.

What was it?

I shall tell you, beloved, the way that she told Goduu, she of Gemstone Ear, for Rukiya had not eaten for a full day, and Goduu was worried. So, the old woman joined Rukiya on deck, carrying a small bowl with a single square of hard-crust and a single slice of oiled root-vegetable. “I thought you might be hungry,” she said.

Rukiya took the food but did not eat it. There were so many things to say, she could not bear to stop up her mouth with food. Instead, she said: “The charm you taught me, the knot in my belt, it was no magic.”

Now Goduu had been mother to children before, so she knew to say: “Was it not? When you tied the knot, did nothing change?”

“The knot, the belt,” Rukiya answered, “They were all that changed,” though she knew that was not entirely true. She had tied the knot out of hope for rescue, a belief that in taking action she could make the world better for her and her fellow slaves. She had felt, in her foolishness, like she had been doing something.

Wise Goduu said: “Without the knot, would you have found a chance to escape? Would you have left Tarras Bastion, if you had not believed change was possible? What is magic, after all, but change not understood? Can you name a better magic than this?”

This was the first that Rukiya had heard of the great secrets. She had seen the magics of her father and thought they had worked, but were his charms and spells any more real than the knot?

But she had seen a better magic, a stronger magic, and she still could not give it a name. Her heart began to race as Goduu forced her to give voice to her fears. “I do not know what I have seen.”

Goduu sniffed, clasping her hands on her stomach, like this. “Now that doesn’t sound true. In fact, I’d say you know exactly what you have seen, but don’t know how it was possible.”

Still Rukiya could not speak of it. “Vishala didn’t call you Goduu. She called you Gemstone Ear. She said she is many things, and that must mean she has many names. By what name do you call her?”

Goduu’s smile was as clever as a fox’s: “Well, I’m sure its still Vishala, isn’t it?”

Rukiya’s heart beat in anger at the old woman’s coy dismissal. “Is your name Goduu, or Gemstone Ear? Who are you?”

“Well, those are two very different questions, aren’t they? As she knows me as She of Gemstone Ear, I know her as She of Dancing Hands.”

“Whose names are they?” Rukiya asked. “Those are not Herathian or Madrainian names.”

“No, they are secret names, given and shared by a secret people. A people who do not share an island or a history, but perhaps something greater. Something like what you share with your sisters in the hold below.”

“Vishala said you were sisters, and I have seen her do magic I have only heard about in stories. Is it but another thing you other-islanders can do so well? Are we Lergosians so backwards that we still think magics are subtle and quiet, to be coaxed and teased into the open, while the rest of the cloud-sea laughs at our childish ways and pulls down the storms upon the land?”

At hearing this, Goduu’s heart broke in two, for she knew the cruelty of laughter in ways Rukiya could only imagine. Reaching out to the child, she rested her head upon her shoulder. “In many ways I think the people of Lergos are wiser than those across the cloud-sea.”

Rukiya knew of no better word to say than: “You are a Beldam. You speak to the Storms the way Vishala can.”

“Now that is a cruel word. I am Goduu, always have been. She of Dancing Hands can, indeed, call to the fires of the cloud-sea. She can burn and sear, and bring cleansing flame. I can’t do that.”

But with all Rukiya had seen, she pressed on. “You are powerful. A storm can destroy a ship. A storm can destroy a town. Some can even destroy cities, if they go unchecked. You are more powerful than an army.”

Goduu could not help but laugh at this: “Am I indeed? Little old me? Goodness gracious. And here I am spending my days being a ship’s cook, making bread and cooking vegetables.”

Rukiya still would not be dissuaded. “Teach me.”

Goduu eyes were clear. “I cannot teach you. It’s not something that can be taught.”

“Then it is who you are?” Rukiya asked. “Is it a part of the blood or the skin? Is it who I am? Can I call the storms?”

“Ah!” Goduu smiled at the thought. She could not answer Rukiya truthfully, for the ways of the Storms are deep and mysterious. Instead she said: “Now that is a question worth asking. Alas, that’s not up to me, I’m afraid. It’s not something that completely a part of us, either. It’s…it’s something that is a part of us and is also chosen.”

“I choose it.”

Goduu smiled, for she did not say it would be Rukiya who did the choosing. The wind blew in the space between them, pushing them from each other as they stared out over the cloud-sea. The scent on the wind was pungant, a heady mix of oil and tar, burning smoke and sour ice.

When the wind died down again, Goduu spoke first. “So impatient. I tell you, if you’re going to grow up into such an impatient woman, maybe you’d be better off not knowing anything about it. Tell me, why do you want such power? You told me you were frightened of the Storms. Now you want to call them when you will? What has changed you so much that you seek what once you feared?”

Rukiya considered for a moment before she answered: “Old Wana told me stories of how it used to be. She told me that the people of Lergos were strong, and brave, and knew how to be good to each other. Then the Eroseans came, and we became weak and cowardly. They hate us. They think we are weak, that we are animals, that we are undeserving of the respect and honor due to every living thing.”

Wise Goduu knew how such cruelty brewed in the world, and so she said: “And yet I doubt you ever heard those words pass another’s lips.”

“Did the Madrainians not whip us? Did the Erosean’s not enslave us? There are more ways of speaking than words. They destroy us not with rifles and swords. They destroy our strength by being stronger. They destroy our pride by being brighter. Why be Lergosian, when being Erosean was so much better? That is how they are killing us. When I climbed aboard the Prezon, I thought I could learn how to be as strong as an Erosean, but still be Lergosian. I thought I could learn how to make Lergos stronger than Erosea. I could learn how to be strong. I need to be strong. My slave-sisters are now threatened by Herathian whips. I need to save them.”

Wise Goduu, like a tender mother, she gave young Rukiya a gentle push and said: “Save them? They are below decks right now.”

“Not all of them. There are slaves in Madrain, Herathia, are there any lands without slaves? I will free them all, all my sisters and brothers. I have seen what it is like to lose yourself to another’s will. I will help everyone who is being eaten by kings and trade-houses. I need to protect those who are whipped by masters and starved by merchants.”

The ship sailed on, the ever-changing yet unchangeable cloud-sea a constant backdrop to the tiny island of wood and leather, creaking and steaming along through the mist.

“It’s a hard path to walk,” Goduu’s voice was quiet. “It will hurt. Not just you, but people around you. That burn on your hand, Vishala did not wish you harm, yet you still burned. The people around you might not be as lucky as you were. People you love and care for. It will be a hard choice to make, if you make it with eyes open.”

Brave Rukiya, once called Phalamili, then Ada, so courageous was her heart that she looked Goduu, she of Gemstone Ear, deep in her eyes and spoke the words which took her one step further: “I want my eyes opened.”

And were they? What happened next? Was that how she became a Caller of the Flood? Was this when she birthed the Wailing Hour?

No, beloved, no, she had much more growing to do, as you do, before she could do such things. What happened next was this: Goduu gave a sad smile, for she knew how deep the pain would be that Rukiya had yet to feel, and rested a hand on her shoulder: “I will help your eyes open, but not today. Today, your sisters are speaking with each other down below, and I think they would like to see you again.”

Rukiya waited for only a moment before following Goduu below decks. In truth, she wanted to see them again as well.

And now the light has faded. Sleep, beloved, and someday I will tell you the story of how Rukiya became she of Puddle Tears, edge-witch, and a true Stormcaller.